I am an occasional ego-surfer, both thrilled and horrified that my name comes up first, over race car drivers, minor sports stars and former-backup singers, as well as reminded that I once decided to change my name before complications with the INS applied the half-Nelson to my enthusiasm for nominal escape.
I have no doubt I will one day change my name, no longer so interested in being your neighbor, but until that moment I must rely mostly on changing the facts, using allegory and substitution of fine detail to throw the would-be hurt off of erstwhile loved ones, far, far too sensitive for my own good. Perhaps rightfully so. I'm the only one who likes to be reminded of my mistakes, I tell myself. And those few who do want the whips and the snaps creep me the fuck out. My absolution frock remains too tight around the chest.
So when I change the names, it's still the same people. When I change the details, it's still the same thing. I just cannot give too much away, because when that family reunion comes around, I still need to fall back on my failed writing career as an excuse for all the hurtful questions.
Take the following real-life happening, for example, with the names changed just enough to maintain my innocence, and the details held only true enough to get the point across. The bad guy in the story could very well be me. It very well could, so don't be hurt, please. No, I don't forgive us. I don't need to. I've changed the history so much that what may have happened is now steeped in fiction, opaque, like the color of tea.
A postcard:
Who is that from?
I don't know, for sure. It's addressed to me. But my father wouldn't send me a postcard.
What's it say?
Dear Danny. And then a string of words that make no sense.
Remembrances:
No I don't have anything from him. Well, except this. I tug the lapels of my jacket.
You're wearing his coat?
Well, it's a nice coat.
I never saw that man wear a coat. He didn't wear a coat to my wedding.
I guess that's why he left it behind. My mom told me it was the only thing left he couldn't hawk. The alimony jacket, she joked. I never thought much about it, but I sure hope this isn't what he wore when they got married. That would be a little creepy. I always assumed he had rented a sky blue tux with taffeta ruffles.
She laughs, a few drops leaving the glass.
Yes, my friend, if he were to ever wear a suit, that would be the one. You knew him as well as anyone.
A line:
I fell in love with a boy. When I emerged from the fog, he turned out to be the wrong boy. That was that.
A kiss:
Too many drinks. The apartment swells, pulses. I have to lean against the counter to keep from falling, and she does, too, suffering from the very same vertigo. She rests her head against my shoulder and laughs, for no reason and all the reasons in the world.
What's that? I'm looking at a colorful corner of a packet underneath a stack of mail by the phone.
I don't know, she says in earnest surprise. Oh! Pop rocks! I forgot about those. A friend mailed them to me as a joke. Candy we used to eat as children.
She tears open the packet, and shakes a few onto her tongue, closes her eyes, her mouth, and giggles.
Wait! Remember these?
She lifts the packet near my face, teases them towards me. I open my mouth and she shakes a few onto my tongue. It does bring back images. Mud puddles, knee scrapes, leaded gas. And now her hand is on my waist. Do you remember pop rock kisses?
I don't say anything, so close she is, what's to say now? There is silence, a fatal understanding. The point of decision, we both know already passed. This is what we've already chosen. When was it? Was it yesterday at the cemetery? Maybe longer ago. She shakes the candy onto her tongue, lets it mix with the air. A moment passes, but not more. My hands on both sides of her gentle face, my mouth on hers, the candy lightly burning our tongues.
I remember. You were like an electrified fence.